


Bright Scraps

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, the sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Takes place in the universe of 'We Were Only Playing'. A walk on a beach.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Polomonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/gifts).
  * Inspired by [We were only playing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/931013) by [R00bs_Teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup). 



> for a timestamp meme on Tumblr:
> 
> Choose any one of my fics (or from prompts on here)  
> Request a scene/moment set in that same universe as that fic. The scene can take place before/during/after the fic.   
> I will write at least a hundred words to fill your request
> 
> Which I am totally up for still doing, just ask on Tumblr (apricotserrant.tumblr.com) or LJ (azile-teacup.livejournal.com)

Arthur’s hand in Mordred’s is warm, and relaxed. Just two days ago it was holding tight, but now it’s easy. Arthur tugs gently and Mordred pauses while Arthur stoops to collect a shell that’s caught his eye. He straightens and gives Mordred an expectant look until Mordred holds out his free hand. A piece of sea-smooth glass is set there. It’s a multitude of blues, dimmed and smooth against his palm. He closes his fingers over it and they wander further, sand fine and warm underfoot. The sun’s still high, though it’s nearly eight, and they’re neither of them in a hurry to get back, so they go slowly, moving closer to and further from the waves. 

 

Mordred, when Arthur goes to turn up the beach again, stills him and steps toward the sea. Arthur offers no resistance, following willingly until the waves wash over their bare feet, cleaning the sand away, measure by rhythmic measure drawing Mordred further in. He stands though, not going deeper, and puts his free hand with the glass in his pocket. Arthur settles at his side, physically familiar- the shape and heft and warmth of him, his breathing, even the little restless shift of the fingers of the hand Mordred isn’t holding. 

 

They look out across the water, the deep plumb echo gape of it, endless stretch to the sky. The crash and still of it, the flow and furough of it, loneliness and power, terror and joy. A song voice, like violins, across the strings and crashing, the deep throat of the cello, the high cry of seagull. Trapped in pages and poems and tugged by the moon, gravity’s cling and release beat and thump and moan. The must of it, must, must, resistless call, the seduction and weep and howl and laugh and thrill. Adrenaline from the smell, body turning to it with the tingle and flight and surge. 

 

They walk on, feet in the water, following the susurrus of the tiny pebbles and shells. Arthur dips and bends, plucking bright scraps from the debris and tumbling them over his fingers, catching the sunlight, shiny wet, polished bright by the sea. Beauty that dulls as it dries. Momentary, fragmentary. Mordred is happy with momentary, to be here to be now. Happy with the sea, the distance between him and Arthur, the pause and wander of their walk. The house is up ahead, though. The path that leads away from the shore, through the sand-dunes and over the bridge. He’s reluctant to leave. 

 

Arthur too seems reluctant. He stops by the dunes and turns them away from the path, back along a beach a step. He sits, and Mordred sits beside him, shoulders brushing. The wet of his rolled jeans and the drying sand itches against his legs, so Mordred brushes it away, rubbing his skin, pinked by the cold water. Arthur doesn’t bother, leaning back on his elbows, head tilted up to the last of the sun, gleamed by it, burnished gold. Mordred looks unabashed. They’ve been together for nearly a year now, he doesn’t need to have a reason to look anymore. 

 

“I like this better,” Arthur says. 

 

“What?” Mordred asks. 

 

“Just you and me, here, like this. I like the sea, like this. I like you with the sea, like this,” Arthur says, sitting up, somehow closer. “You’re part of it all, I can feel it. A selkie. The sea can’t take you.”

  
“No,” Mordred agrees. “No, the sea can’t take me.”


End file.
